


Robin Hood, Kinda

by a_static_world



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: It will get better i hope, M/M, angstier than i was planning, i shat out most of the stuff about the commandos, i took many liberties, im stucky shit, kind of Au-ish, not beta'd be nice to me, sam wilson is my son, set post-CATWS, steve is a petty pottymouth, this is Not How Museum Security Works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: In which the government kept all of Steve's stuff and decides it's a good idea to display it for all the public to see. Steve begs to differ.





	1. The Inception

**Author's Note:**

> This will have multiple chapters I swear but it Might Not Be Soon

Goddamnit, but Steve couldn’t stay away from his exhibit. Earbuds in, he’d make it in rain or shine. He always went incognito, but it had gotten up to at least one visit per week, and a baseball cap and sunglasses don’t hide you well when you’re 6’2” and weigh 240 pounds and, oh yeah, visit once a week. He just couldn’t help himself; it felt like being back with Bucky again, and it had been too damn long since he had smiled like that. It was convenient, within walking distance of his apartment. There was no reason not to, and as Sam had once said, “Whatever make you happy, man.”  
So he went back, again and again and again. And again, for good measure. Watched the clips of him and Bucky, saluted the Commandos, smiled at Peggy. Rinse and repeat. 

Then they updated the exhibit.   
“Come See Authentic Howling Commandos Era Captain America Artifacts!” The news that morning blared, and Steve hadn’t gone yet this week, and, well, he was curious. 

The banner hanging in the hall was in red, white, and blue, as Patriotism™ dictated, and Steve groaned as he ducked into the small side room that housed the exhibit. 

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

There, housed on tables draped in black velvet, was everything Steve had ever owned. Toothbrushes, socks (some were Bucky’s), watches, plates, and even some replica food from the ‘30s and ‘40s. Food that Steve was definitely too poor to ever have eaten. All that separated the people from the items was a few red velvet ropes, hastily stretched around tables with signs that read “Please Do Not Touch; Fragile”. A “Please Touch!” table was set up towards the back of the exhibit, containing a few sad polyester replica suspenders, disposable mascara cakes, and a plate of stale crackers. The room was dimly lit, whether to conserve energy or to recreate the shitty lighting of the 30s, Steve couldn’t tell. He felt something then, looking at his stuff spread on tables like fucking toys; a small, indignant stirring of someone who had been lost in the move to Beefcake Body. Steven Grant Rogers, 120-pound-mop-haired-wheezy-tiny-never-give-up Steve, came rumbling back to life as 2015 PTSD-ridden-suffering-struggling-smiling Steve slowly scanned the trestle tables packed with stuff. They even had his fucking kitchen, for Christ’s sake. 

“This is-this is disgusting.This is the worst. I fucking died and this is what they do with my shit? Store it until I’m popular again?” Steve muttered as he meandered around, the exhibit occupied by himself and a few bored teenagers halfheartedly looking at the “Personal Items” table. Good. Little kids were trouble-short enough to see under the cap, they’d look on the verge of shitting themselves with excitement until Steve made the “shh” signal. Every table was categorized, organized, and labeled in crisp perfection. Steve began to feel an ancient anger bubble up in his gut, accompanied by the familiar nausea of repressed memories. “Food” and “Clothes” were passed over in a blind rage, and only the “Photographs” table gave Steve cause to slow. There, the single photograph of his Ma that Steve had treasured for years. Over there, Steve and Bucky at 11 and 12, respectively, grinning wildly with their arms slung over each other. In the far corner, a news clipping of when Steve rescued the 107th. And dead center, staring Steve directly in the face, was a photocopy of the only signed picture of the Howling Commandos. The only real one, anyway. There were plenty that had been signed, but this one had traveled across Europe with them, been to hell and back, and survived. It was a pact, forged in alcohol and melancholy, that all of them would make it out together. An idea wormed its way into his head, accompanied by a flash of Bucky with a shit-eating grin. Every nerve in his body was immediately alight; it was the kind of bad idea that had to be carried out.   
Shit. Motherfucking, hell-bound shit.  
Steve was going to steal his goddamned stuff back. 

 

It took him all of five ten twenty minutes to decide what to grab. Small things were key; the smaller they were, the longer it would take to notice they were missing.  
Or so Steve hoped.   
He took only three things that day: a watch, a pair of socks, and a fork from the kitchen set. Steve silently Nat for the sweatpants he was currently wearing- lightweight yet warm, and with the biggest goddamn pockets he’d ever seen. But nabbing the stuff wasn’t the hard part. Steve was trained, and the exhibit was shittily monitored, with no in-person guards and one temporary camera that had a blinking low battery light. 

It was the holding it that was hard.

The feeling it in his pocket, the weight and realness and thereness of it.   
This was the watch that Steve had worn when Bucky shipped out, the chafing of new leather his only accompaniment to the chill of the morning.   
These were the socks he had sewn back together the night his Ma died, with stitches so crooked that Steve could almost feel the stinging in his fingers from the needle.  
That was the fork Buck had brought home one day, triumph and pride in this new piece of silver outshining the haggard, work-worn look on his face.  
Steve shook himself then, sunglasses nearly flying off his face as he realized he had walked himself home without consciously realizing it. He was face-to-face with the buzzer, the weight of the items in his pocket growing heavier by the minute.  
Up the stairs, into the apartment, and exhale. 

Fuck, he was gonna be in trouble.


	2. The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets found out and gains some allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another wonderfully short chapter! I suck at writing long things I'm sorry. Enjoy!

“What the fuck, Rogers.”  
“Yeah man, what the actual fuck were you thinking?”  
Steve groaned, his stolen treasures spread out interrogation-style on Sam’s kitchen table. Across from him sat Sam and Nat, stony-faced and cross-armed. He took a second to glance around, a weak attempt to stall for time, but Natasha cleared her throat expectantly.   
“Fuck-I just couldn’t leave it there. That’s my shit, guys. Mine and Bucky’s-” Steve swallowed hard before continuing, “Mine and Bucky’s, and I can’t let the fucking government sell out my life as if it was some charmed paradise.” 

Silence. Awkward, tense, pregnant silence. 

Sam and Natasha made eye contact briefly before turning back to Steve, expressions softened only slightly. Steve sat back in his chair, the adrenaline rush and tension of the previous day draining out of him all at once. Sam got up, poured him a glass of orange juice, and leaned against the counter.  
“Listen, man. I can’t argue with you; that’s your shit and, legally, they shouldn’t even have it. But you’re not gonna get away with this forever. Just look.”  
Sam turned on the TV and took a seat as the announcer’s voice filled the room.  
“-valuable artifacts stolen today from the Captain America exhibit in the Smithsonian. The police have no leads, but museum curators say they’ve seen a suspicious man in a baseball cap and sunglasses entering the exhibit multiple times, and that he seems to be tied to a rash of other disappearances, including the priceless Retro suit. The spokeswoman for the Smithsonian-” The broadcast ended abruptly as Nat shut the television off, her steely gaze piercing Steve’s skull.   
“Listen, Steve, if we had known this was this important, if you had told us, we could have helped you. You tend to be reckless in the field and-don’t you fucking dare roll your eyes, Mr. Hero Complex. We all know it’s true, so get your head out of your ass and ask for help next time.” Sam smirked as Nat’s speech concluded, leaving Steve looking utterly chastised. Steve groaned again, rubbing his face and desperately wishing he was back at his shitty apartment instead of being stared down by an ex-assassin and his best friend.

“Fuck, okay, you got me. But I can’t return this shit, physically I can’t. They’ve pinned me. But also, fuck them, it’s my shit.” Sam and Natasha grinned in tandem, the kind of grin that made Steve worried about what was coming next.   
“Dude, you’re like Robin Hood!” Sam laughed, clearly delighted with the fact that Mr. Patriot was stealing from the government.  
“Kinda, though, I don’t even think the homeless would want poorly sewn, hundred-year-old socks.” Nat drawled, a genuine smile on her face. Steve laughed out loud then, the worry and anxiety that had been lurking in his brain evaporating as he giggled like a juice-drunk five year old. Goddamn, it was good to have friends. Robbery-supporting, genuine friends who are definitely going to help him steal more of his shit. And soon.

“Ok, the plan is what? And why am I going, the media hates black men-”  
“Sam, you’ll be fine. You’ve got a clean record, and you won’t get caught. They’re looking for Meathead Steve over here, not Urkel.”  
Sam sighed as Natasha and Steve checked the body-cams, mics, and magnets one last time. “I still don’t get why it’s me, you’re a literal ex-spy, this was your fucking job!”  
“I’m going to ignore meathead for now, Nat, but she’s right.” Steve said, now writing a list of items on the Falcon stationary Sam had given him for his birthday. “You’re the only one left with a clean record after the Insight disaster, and we can’t afford me or Natasha getting arrested.” They were in Steve’s apartment, museum layouts and exhibit blueprints laid out Ocean’s 11 style on his dining table.   
“Done!” Steve announced, setting the finished list in the middle of the pile. “Thank fuck for photographic memory. Sam, this is everything in the exhibit, sorted by table. I could sketch it out but you’re literally going right now so, uh, nah.”   
Sam snorted. “Nice. Supportive. Solid plan, Cap. You know what, that’s what I’m calling you from now on. Solid Plan Cap, star-spangled man with a Solid Plan™.”  
“Sam, oh my god, did you just say “tee-em” out loud? Another one for the repression bucket, my fuck.” Natasha muttered, studying the plans and the list Steve had written out. “Are you sure you got this?”  
“Am-am I fucking sure?!” Sam spluttered. “You’re the two fucking bozos who roped me into this! ‘Oh, Sam, you’ve got such a squeaky fucking clean record! The media won’t demonize you at all if you get caught!’”   
“Okay, okay. We got it. We trust you, though. Right, Tasha?” Steve glared, not-so-subtly elbowing Natasha into responding.   
“Yep. Total confidence, you can do this, and other motivational bullshit.” Nat replied automatically, prompting Sam and Steve to break into hysterical laughter. “Okay, boys, enough giggling. I’ve got this figured out. It’s a small exhibit, and security is bound to have been boosted since,” she broke off and glanced at the odd pile on the counter. “So we’ll have to be careful. Sam, the magnets in your pocket will shield any metallic objects from the metal detectors they’ll have set up. Photos and cloth items shouldn’t be a problem. Get in and out as fast as you can and we won’t have any reason to worry. Stay safe.” Sam nodded, suddenly turning grave.   
“I’ll see you guys later. Steve, any special requests?”  
Steve nodded once. “My ma. Grab her picture?”  
“Sure thing, meathead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the love on the last chapter! Special thanks to anoddconstellationofthoughts for dealing with my "creative" process bullshit. Go check them out!


	3. The Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve gets the shock of a very, very, very long lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! I'm alive! This is so short! I'm so so sorry please enjoy

Sam swaggered in precisely one hour later, pockets bulging ever so slightly and shit-eating grin firmly in place.  
“Look! What! I! Did!” he said triumphantly, pulling item after item out of his pockets. “I! Stole! From! The Fucking! Smithsonian!” And with that he collapsed into hysterics, Nat muttering something about an adrenaline high and orange juice. Steve combed through what Sam, now slumped on the couch, had brought back: a spoon, a tie that had been Bucky’s, one of his old drawing kits, and-  
“Thank god”  
Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he gingerly picked up the photo of Sarah Rogers, stern face set at odds with the twinkle in her eye. She had been twenty six when that photo was taken, youthful face already haggard and worn from hours in the TB wards. Steve thought she was beautiful.  
“There’s some resemblance there.”  
Steve whirled around to find Nat squinting at the photo, then at him, then back at the photo. He laughed, maybe-no, definitely brushing away a few tears as he set the photo down and looked at Sam.  
“He gonna be okay?”  
“Who, bird brain over there? He’ll be fine.” Natasha grinned. “You’d think with all this superhero stuff he’d be used to it, but apparently stealing from the federal government twice is too much to handle.”  
Steve smiled back, albeit a little wanly. Hey, it was late(ish) and he was tired (try exhausted).  
“Well, you guys had better scatter back to whatever crazy, illegal hell dimension you came from!” The joke was meant to sound light, but there was an aggressive undercurrent that Natasha picked up on faster than he could apologize.  
“Yep. Up, lazy bird. No worms for you today, baepsae.”  
Sam groaned, rolling off the couch and onto his feet in a move that in his mind was probably graceful, but that, to Steve, looked more like a no-footed goose attempting a water ballet and failing miserably. 

That night, sleep eluded Steve. He tossed. He turned. He counted sheep, whatever the fuck that was supposed to do. His body burned through over-the-counter sleeping pills so fast he ended up more awake than before. The objects, lined up near-obsessively on his kitchen counter, loomed shadowlike over his imagination. The little sleep he managed to get was fraught with serum-induced-memory-fever-dreams.  
A shoulder squeeze, a promise spanning almost thirteen years.  
It started when they were kids, this promise. When Bucky found Steve, small, asthmatic, hotheaded Steve, bleeding on the ground. When he took Steve back home, all the while chattering about baseball and movies and everything except that Steve had gotten his ass kicked. When he started staying for dinner more often than not. When, on their third joint beating, he said “I’m with you to the end of the line, okay? I’m not leaving you behind.”  
That’s when it all started.  
A hungover Bucky leaving for work, leaning over Steve’s still-sleeping form, a whispered promise.  
“Y’know, no matter what, I’m always gonna come home to you. Always.”  
A severely ill Steve, drifting in and out of consciousness.  
“Don’t let this be the end of the line, Stevie.”  
A smile, a hug, a tip of the hat.  
“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”  
A scream, the wind, silence.  
Silence.  
Steve jolts upright, heart hammering, palms and cheeks an oil slick of emotion. He trundles to the kitchen, turning lights on as he goes. Bedroom, hallway, bathroom, living room. Kitchen.  
A flood of light, a dropped glass.  
A man in black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess whooooooo :D  
> im so sorry again that this took so long my life is a hectic mess  
> this is definitely an AU now, also i'm talking out of my ass 99% of the time so please call me out on any inaccurate bullshit you may encounter. Credits to anoddconstellationofthoughts you are the BEST thank you for that prompt and also for writing everything I chuck at you  
> go check them out and also justashotofdepresso for some Good Content.


	4. The Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that! Another (short) one! Enjoy :)   
> Warning: lots of language, mentions of PTSD

Oh, shit.  
Shitshitshitshitshitshit-pull it together, Rogers, chrissake.  
Shit.  
Steve exhales shakily and scans the charcoal-clad figure across the room. He hasn’t tried to run; he’s just standing, stock still except for the panicky rise and fall of his chest.   
Fuck.  
Breathe in, breathe out.  
“Bucky?”  
“Who the hell is Bucky?” the voice seems to grind on the throat, like it’s struggling to make itself known. Underuse, a voice in Steve’s head whispers as he begins to shake, body quaking as memories throw themselves at his psyche.  
The train. The bridge. The helicarrier.   
“Fuck. Steve. I was-” the man-Bucky-stops, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing. Searching for the words, Steve realizes.   
“Funny-joke, I was. Joking.” He finishes, eyes worried, arm half reaching for Steve, the rest of the body as still as before. Steve drags a hand down his face, trying to stop the shaking, the bile creeping up his throat, trying to answer in a normal-ish way, because what the fuck is happening right now?  
“Are you-are you hungry? Cause I have, uhhh, some food?” Steve finishes lamely, gesturing with a hand towards the kitchen counter and, oh, goddamnit. The stolen memories. Fuck, that’s ironic, isn’t it? Bucky moves towards the objects, tapping each one gently with a finger made of metal and raw strength. He picks up the tie, turning to Steve with a confused look.   
“This-” his forehead wrinkles again, fingers moving rapidly in some kind of sign language that Steve can’t understand. Whatever it is, it sure as hell isn’t ASL.   
“Tie!” Bucky says triumphantly, giving Steve a weak smile. “I-remember. Funeral. Ma.”  
Steve nods, throat closing up as it hits him that this is Bucky, his Bucky, to-the-end-of-the-line Bucky. He takes a step, another, another, until they’re only a few feet apart. Steve raises his arms and-  
Bucky bolts. He flies across the room and crouches down, making himself as small as possible. When Steve tries to get closer, Bucky starts shaking his head, hair whipping across his face as he backs further into the corner of the room, whole body convulsing as he tries to control himself.  
“Fuck, sorry, I’m so sorry. Can-do you need-shit.” Steve almost punches a wall in frustration at his own stupidity before realizing that it probably wasn’t the best idea. Ok, plan time. What to do. Food? Yeah, let’s start with that. Food. Steve pulls a pan out of the cupboard, sets it on the stove, and stalls. What do you cook for your best-friend-turned-dead-turned-assassin? Eggs? Fuck, did he even have any eggs? Steve walks to the fridge, rummages around, and-there! Eggs, damnit! He wasn’t a total failure of an adult, at least, not in the eggs department. Bucky had extricated himself from the corner and-jesus christ he’s silent-sat at the island, staring with dead eyes at the stove.   
“Hey, do eggs sound good? With, uh,” Steve pokes his head back into the fridge, digging up a block of cheddar, some sausage, and a shriveled onion that looked almost as old as Pierce, satan bless him. “This?”  
Bucky nods, eyes slowly refocusing and losing some of the glassiness of before. Steve cracks, shreds, fries, chops, and plates in silence, the sound of their breathing the only accompaniment to the symphony of clinking plates and hissing oil. Bucky devours his plate in seconds and immediately turns to Steve’s plate, still half full. Oh look, he hasn’t forgotten the power of his goddamn puppy eyes. Great. Steve sighs and pushes his plate over to Bucky, which earns him another smile-ish, which, okay, might be worth it. When Bucky finishes his plate, plus another helping from the pan, plus a banana, Steve pushes back from the counter.   
“How about a shower? Not that you need one, not like you smell or anything, just thought you might, uh, want one?” Christ, Rogers, this isn’t a first date. He needed to, as Sam would say, “chill the fuck out.”   
Bucky nodded again, the whole attempted-hug incident apparently shocking him back into a nonverbal state.  
“Ok, follow me.” Steve traipses towards the hall bathroom, turning the overhead lights off and the lamps on as he goes. He opens the door, going in first so Bucky won’t feel trapped. Steve turns on the water and tests it with his wrist, speaking to Bucky over his shoulder.  
“There’s shampoo and body wash in the shower, and towels are on the back of the door. If you need anything, just yell or knock on the wall really loud, ok?” Steve turns around fully and ho-ly-shit. He’s suddenly aware of just how tiny the bathroom is, because behind him is a fully naked Bucky. Steve flushes as Bucky moves towards the shower, definitely not peeking at all as he bends over to grab Bucky’s dirty clothes.   
This is going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooooooooooooooh ;)  
> I'm definitely basing bucky's speech restrictions on despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) by praximeter (Zimario). My bucky is also based a little off of bucky from This, You Protect by owlet. Those are two of my most favorite works on this site and I admire the fuck out of both of the authors, so please go check them out. As always, thank you to anoddconstellationofthoughts, and thank all of you so so much for the support and kudos!


End file.
